CHAPTER 189: FIRST ROLLOUT OF BUS OF TG MOTORS

October 12, 2029

Quezon City

Commonwealth Depot

5:40 AM.

The depot was still dim when Timothy arrived. The sun hadn’t cleared the roofs yet. Dew clung to the metal railings, and the air carried the familiar mix of dust, fuel residue, and the faint smell of early-morning street vendors setting up nearby.

Except today, there was no diesel exhaust.

The first electric bus stood near the bay doors—plain white, no loud branding. Simple lines. Clean body. No chrome. A quiet presence.

Carlos walked toward him, holding a tablet. His eyes showed lack of sleep, but his voice stayed steady.

"Unit One is checked," he said. "Battery at ninety-eight percent. Aircon stable. Cabin temperature balanced."

"Driver?" Timothy asked.

"In the breakroom," Carlos said. "He’s early."

Inside the depot, a group of mechanics stood around the bus, checking tires and inspecting the underside. They wore TG Motors shirts, but their posture was different today—less routine, more cautious.

The first rollout always changed the air.

Hana arrived next, notebook under her arm, hair tied up fast, still straight from the car.

"Media is already positioning near the depot gates," she said. "City Hall is sending observers. They’re not doing a ribbon-cutting, per your request."

"No ceremony," Timothy said. "Ceremonies create expectations. We’re testing reality."

Carlos checked another panel and nodded to himself. "It’s ready."

Timothy walked toward the breakroom. The door was half open. Inside, a man in his late thirties sat at a plastic table, uniform neatly pressed, hands resting flat in front of him.

His name tag read:Driver: R. Santos

He stood when Timothy entered.

"Sir," Santos said.

Timothy nodded once. "You trained on the simulator."

"Yes, sir."

"You reviewed the emergency protocols."

"Yes, sir."

"You understand this is a pilot run, and reactions outside may be mixed."

Santos hesitated. "Yes, sir."

Timothy studied him a moment. Not fearful—just preparing.

"You’re not replacing anyone," Timothy said. "You’re proving something works."

Santos nodded again, jaw set.

"Let’s go," Timothy said.

6:10 AMThe depot gates opened.

A cluster of people waited outside—drivers from nearby jeepney terminals, bystanders, early commuters, a few activists holding signs, and media crews with cameras pointed at the entrance.

The electric bus eased out, smooth and quiet.

No engine growl. No smoke trail.

Just motion.

The crowd reacted in different ways.

Some phones rose immediately.

Some scoffed.

Some stepped back, unsure.

A few jeeps parked at the terminal idled their engines louder than usual, as if trying to compete.

One older driver standing near the fence muttered loudly to his friend, "It doesn’t make a sound. How is that safe?"

His friend shrugged. "Looks cold inside, though."

Another man near the corner spoke under his breath, "They say it has fixed salaries. Must be nice."

The activists lifted their signs for the cameras.

"Protect Our Drivers!""No Corporate Transport Control!"

But their voices didn’t match the scale of yesterday’s protests. Smaller crowd. More uncertain.

The bus approached the temporary stop painted on the pavement.

A few commuters hesitated before stepping forward.

A student in a blue jacket looked at the open door, then at the cameras. "Is this free?"

"For the first two weeks," Hana said calmly, standing near the waiting line.

The student stepped inside.

More followed.

An office worker, two market vendors, a mother with her child. They scanned the interior—wide aisle, silent cabin, cold air from overhead vents.

No rattling panels.

No heat.

No smell of fuel.

The mother sat with her child on her lap. The child looked around, eyes tracing the lights on the ceiling.

"It’s quiet," the child said.

Driver Santos closed the doors, checked the monitor, and pulled away from the stop.

The electric motor hummed softly.

Movement, but no vibration.

Another crowd reaction—this time murmured, not shouted.

A man near the sidewalk said, "It doesn’t shake."Someone beside him replied, "Feels like a train."

Timothy watched silently from a distance with Carlos and Hana.

Inside the Bus – 6:20 AM

Santos kept his posture straight. The route was simple: Commonwealth to East Avenue and back. Controlled. Predictable.

Passengers looked around as the bus accelerated smoothly.

A man in the back seat crossed his arms. "Feels strange without the engine."

Another man responded, "Strange or better?"

A woman in office attire ran her fingers along the seat’s edge.

"No cracks," she said quietly. "No broken frames."

The child whispered again, "It’s cold."

Santos heard bits of their conversations but stayed focused.

The intersection ahead changed lights. He applied the brakes.

No shudder. No metal squeal.

A vendor seated near the middle said, "It stops clean."

Someone else replied, "That’s what electric does."

Outside – 6:32 AM

A group of jeepney drivers near the terminal watched the bus return from its half loop. Their faces were mixed—skepticism, irritation, curiosity.

One older driver shook his head. "When that arrives everywhere, what happens to us?"

Another man said quietly, "They said there’ll be training."

The older man snorted. "Training doesn’t fix everything."

A younger driver, leaning on his jeep, said, "But the pay is fixed. No boundary. No gas expenses."

They went silent for a moment.

Fear still hung in the air, but the cracks were clearer now.

Fear didn’t hold firm when reality appeared in front of them.

Carlos watched from the curb, hands in his pockets.

"This is better than I expected," he said.

"It’s only the first route," Hana replied. "Tomorrow will be harder."

Timothy said nothing. He watched the passengers exit—calm, unbothered, some even impressed.

One woman approached a news camera and said, "It’s clean. That’s all I’ll say."

A worker in construction gear said, "It’s faster than the usual bus."

A college student said, "Feels like the city isn’t stuck in the past."

Across the street, activists raised their signs higher.

"Don’t Replace Drivers!"

But their voices lacked momentum.

When the bus opened its doors again for the next round, more commuters stepped in without hesitation.

7:15 AM – Inside the Depot

Santos parked the bus after completing three loops.

Mechanics surrounded the vehicle for inspection. Battery level was checked. Brake temperature measured. Tire pressure confirmed. No anomalies.

Santos stepped down from the driver’s seat, wiping sweat from his forehead though the cabin had stayed cold.

Hana approached him. "How did it feel?"

He considered his answer.

"It feels like driving something built for the road," he said. "Not patched together to survive it."

Timothy nodded slightly.

"Would you drive it again tomorrow?" he asked.

"Yes," Santos said.

No hesitation.

7:40 AM – Outside the Gates

More people had arrived.

Some were supporters. Some simply curious. Some had heard from friends or saw social media clips of the first run.

Reporters began interviewing commuters.

"It’s comfortable.""It’s steady.""It’s too quiet but I like it.""No shaking.""No fumes.""Feels modern."

A man wearing a union shirt looked frustrated as he listened.

"This doesn’t prove anything," he said.

But the public around him wasn’t reacting with anger.

They were reacting with recognition.

For once, something worked.

8:00 AM – TG Motors HQ

Back at TG Tower, Timothy reviewed the data with Carlos and Hana.

"Energy consumption per loop is lower than projected," Carlos said. "Aircon load stable."

"Passenger feedback?" Hana asked.

"Fifty-six percent positive," Timothy said. "Thirty percent neutral. Fourteen percent negative."

"Not bad," Hana said.

Timothy closed the tablet and leaned back.

"Tomorrow, Pasig," he said. "Then Makati."

Carlos nodded. "We’ll prepare the units."

Hana breathed out slowly. "The backlash doesn’t vanish after one successful run."

"No," Timothy said. "But fear loses ground when shown the truth."

He stood and looked out the window—traffic crawling, horns echoing, the same daily rhythm of a broken system.

Except now, in a small corner of Commonwealth Avenue, something different had entered that rhythm.

Something that didn’t belch smoke or rattle panels.

Something built to move people without exhausting them.

It wasn’t a revolution.

Not yet.

But it was movement.

Real movement.

The first shift in a city that hadn’t shifted in decades.

Timothy watched the roads and said quietly:

"One bus at a time."